


Analgesia

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Painplay, Plug and Play Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inability to feel pain also includes the inability to feel pleasure. </p><p>For tf-rare-pairing halloween challenge prompt 'in the middle of the night'. Sorta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Analgesia

Turmoil knew the official name, of course:  Modification-analgesia. Some strange crossover between his sensornet and the degaussers left him incapable of registering pain.  

But he remembered it, of course, remembered pain from before the degaussers. He remembered the pain of the degaussing installation itself, even. And then...nothing, his own body turned into some numb, almost foreign landscape.

He could sense pressure--faintly.  Heat and cold, only in extremes, well beyond the point of doing damage.  Nothing else. Pain was just...gone, erased from his sensory vocabulary, it and all the warnings it carried with it: slow down, pull back, stop.  He had none of those, anymore, no sign, no signifier, no limit.  

His body didn't know it anymore, but his mind did.  His mind remembered, and like anything remembering something and not being able to have it, a hunger, a craving, stretched into something like an obsession.  He needed it, needed to see it, smell it, make it real across his sensorspan.

And one day, he'd discovered, almost by accident, that he could feel it secondhand.  His primary sensors were dead, numbed by the electromagnetic dampeners, but the pathways remained in his brain module, at least, the relays simply waiting to be lit up, ignited.  

And that's what he was doing now, in the darkest hours of the night, a special treat, a treasure, scraping the blade up one of Deadlock's exposed arm servos.  He watched the smaller mech howl, struggle against the steel bonds, his face contorted with pain and anger, like two paints badly mixing.  

Turmoil knew that if he'd been tied like that, his forearm armor clamshelled open, all manner of implements and prods applied to the sensitive systems beneath, he would do none of those things: no noise, no anger, no struggle. He'd merely tilt his head up, to watch, fascinated, testing himself to feel anything from it, and failing.  

Deadlock, though. He was so alive, so open to pain, so very, very vulnerable.

And so very willing, in a way Turmoil could not yet entirely understand, knowing what would happen to him, and yet accepting these invitations anyway, showing up with his usual scowling silence, as though words were simply wastes of air pressure.  

They could be, Turmoil had found.  But sometimes, words were blades themselves, scorching or freezing, slicing deeper than any laser scalpel.  

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, bending low, his massive chassis blocking out the light, casting Deadlock’s entire body in shadow, as though consuming him, reducing him to alarm-ambered optics glowing dully and distantly.  “Tell me,” he said, nuzzling his mask along the other’s audio receiver.

Deadlock groaned, Turmoil’s words pulling him from that inward nest of pain, his body twisting and straining against the bonds, trying to fight words. His reasons didn’t matter, as much as the fact that he showed up, offering himself for this, to be tortured, inflicted upon, and recorded.  

Turmoil purred, feeling his cold, damped EM field carry the vibration to Deadlock’s rawness, as he moved, sliding a hand down between the other’s thighs, cupping almost tenderly over the interface hatch.  He could sense, through the link, the heat underneath the metal, the urgency Deadlock would try to deny.  

Which was, of course, why they were connected. And Deadlock knew it, knew there was no way to hide anything from Turmoil: not his pain, not his desire, not his rage, not his hate. Turmoil felt all of them, individual channels over the hardline link, tasting each separately, then in a sort of sweet complexity.  

“You want this, don’t you,” Turmoil said, having to look, unable to go by feel, to open the other’s interface hatch, slide his hand over the spike’s cover.  

Deadlock snarled through his dentae, hand twisting in the binding, his hips twisting upward into Turmoil’s touch even as Turmoil could feel the hatred, the resistance travel along the link.

Turmoil laughed, the sound throaty and rich, his fingers skimming over the spike cover, until he heard it click aside. He lay his palm flat over the spike cover aperture, feeling the pressurizing mechanism jut into his hand as bland pressure fighting against his palm. Deadlock whined, squirming, until Turmoil relented, letting his hand curve around the spike.  The link fed him Deadlock’s sensations--heat and urgency, the wet slide of his own lubricant, the almost too hard pressure of Turmoil’s grip as the hand circled it, beginning a relentless, demanding series of strokes.  

The red optics blazed, the smaller body twitching on the berth, Deadlock’s free hand clutching at Turmoil’s wrist, helpless, a small claw that Turmoil barely felt. He was lost, himself, in the sensory feed: the rising need, a sort of coiling heat in a secondhand belly, the hard strokes along a spike, pleasure and pain taunting each other. 

He could feel it build, unbridled and half-feral, across Deadlock's sensor net. A sort of desperation rose in both of them: that, at least, Turmoil could still feel--the frustration, the urgency of wanting overload, of having it hover just out of range, or build, with an exquisite slowness, like the way his hand shifted to moving with a slow, twisting pull on the spike. 

A sound, almost like a wail, from Deadlock's vocalizer, pleasure overriding everything else, his optics going distant, hand trying to gouge into Turmoil's, under the plating, hips bucking up, and Turmoil felt that pinnacle rise in front of him, Deadlock's need peaking. He waited, a klik, two kliks, holding off, his hand still working on the spike, before he leaned over, almost casually, taking the blade he'd been using earlier, and driving it through one of the exposed fuel lines.

Deadlock screamed, his body going rigid, arching off the berth, energon and transfluid spilling from his body, spattering heat over his arm, his chassis, his thighs, a release like a nova bursting through him.

Delicious. Glorious. Really, Deadlock was like no other, his need for this something rare, only matched by his hatred for his own need.  Turmoil's cooling system kicked on, tripped by the other's heat, filtered through the hardline link, and he moved, almost gently, releasing the friction-hot spike, pulling the blade from the wound, holding it up to Deadlock's face, so the other could see the glistening pink of his own innermost energon streaking the blade.  If Turmoil could smile, he would smirk, triumphantly, as Deadlock lifted his head, glossa finding the blade, licking along the edge, tasting his own energon, optics catching fire in the last echo of Turmoil's shared overload. 

He wanted to know what it was in the grounder that made him seek this out, made him want, need this, pain and pleasure feeding each other.  But he wanted this more, the mystery of it, the heat and urgency of it always just beyond him. And if that was the price, if not knowing was what he had to give up to have this? Well...there were always sacrifices.


End file.
